


dissenter

by unholyconfessions (orphan_account)



Series: salt in the wounds [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Episode Related, F/M, Frottage, M/M, Mental Instability, Mild Sexual Content, Set During 5.09 - Lies of Omission, Set During 5.10 - Status Asthmaticus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 15:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4925584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/unholyconfessions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theo doesn’t explore, doesn’t take his time. He gives Stiles just enough pressure, just enough speed to make Stiles’ entire body hurt, impatient. </p><p>[sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4764563">harbinger</a>.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	dissenter

**Author's Note:**

> This one look me a bit longer than expected, but I'm pleased. I hope y'all like it as well.
> 
> This spans over both 5.09 and 5.10, so it's a little longer than usual. The rating has gone up a little bit and it'll probably stay that way for a while. I'm not sure where I'm going with this from now on though, so we'll see.
> 
> Unbetaed. Feedback is always welcome and awesome. Enjoy! :-)

Not talking makes it easier to keep secrets. Talking makes it easier to lie.

He doesn’t talk to Malia, not about anything substantial, but she still kisses him at night whenever her head on his pillow, her hands kept to herself, a smile on her lips that doesn’t match the light in her eyes.

“It’s okay,” she says, moves away before Stiles has a chance to touch her.

He watches her sleep until he doesn’t, succumbing to a dreamless slumber and opening his eyes to an empty bed, cold sheets bathed in sunlight.

Lydia is his comfort zone, usually. Hollow words and glances, nothing more, because she doesn’t want to know his secrets unless he wants to tell her, and he doesn’t. _Can’t_ tell her, can’t tell anyone.

They wander back into the woods and he has no intention of letting her find those missing bodies or talk to Parrish. He can’t let her involve the police, involve his dad, and looking for the Nemeton keeps her occupied, so that’s exactly what they do.

Hours later and they’ve walked past the exact same spot at least a dozen times, to Stiles’ relief. A voice in his head berates him for betraying her trust but he ignores it.

“It’s almost like this thing doesn’t want to be found,” he says as they stop for a breath. 

Lydia pokes a fallen tree with her foot, absentmindedly. “Maybe it knows we’re late for class,” she says, and doesn’t hide the frustration in her tone, “because we’ve been here twice.”

Stiles sighs and hopes the word doesn’t sound as flat as it feels coming out from his chest, “Crap.”

“Can we talk to Parrish now?” she asks.

He argues but without vigor, vague movements and even vaguer words, and she’s not having it. She’s dead set on telling Parrish—for more reasons than one, it seems; they guy’s not exactly forgettable, he doesn’t blame her—and Stiles doesn’t waste his time on a lost battle, leaves her be.

He follows her as she walks away, bets on the slight possibility that Parrish won’t involve the police, not directly, and maybe no one’ll notice the bodies he and Theo have left behind.

“Stiles,” she says as she drops him off at school before heading to the station to find Parrish, her eyes searching his face then darting to something in the distance. “Be careful.”

Stiles looks over his shoulder and back at her, pretends to consider her advice. A lie fizzes on his tongue and he presses it to the back of his teeth, nods, Theo’s eyes hot on his back.

“You too,” he murmurs, instead. 

She lingers for a second that stretches into two, nodding back. “I will,” she says, and goes.

Theo casually touches him as they walk around the back and into the library, a flutter of his fingers against the small of Stiles’ back. It leaves Stiles on edge, nerves red-hot and sore. Stiles swallows dry, ignores the itch in the back of his mind, and then moves away, still an inch too close but just far enough to be able to breathe.

“Anything?” Theo asks, seemingly unaffected.

Stiles starts walking. “No.”

“You guys are sure that’s where Parrish is taking the bodies?”

“Lydia says that’s what happens in his dream.”

“I mean, you know if Lydia finds the Nemeton,” Theo says, “she’s also going to find Donovan…”

Stiles’ shoes scrape against the floor as he turns around sharply. He takes one step closer to Theo in a silent reprimand. Anyone could’ve heard him. Theo stops walking before he bumps into Stiles, glances around as if he didn’t mean to say it aloud. He looks back at Stiles, eyes softer than before for barely a moment. Stiles almost misses it.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

Stiles watches the slight flit of Theo’s eyes to his mouth and back, wonders if Theo can be trusted after all and dismisses the thought. He counters, “Yeah, and she’s also gonna find Josh.”

They’re together in this, in more ways than Stiles wishes they were, and Theo doesn’t get to play mind games with him and get out unscathed. They’re both killers, they’ve both got blood in their hands, guilty or not.

Theo takes in a breath and lets it out long and steady, eyes darting to a spot in the distance when Stiles stares at him.

“You know what, maybe she should,” he tells Stiles, rolling his shoulders in an unconcerned shrug.

Stiles’ stomach plummets to the floor with the weight of an anvil. He takes a step back, has to distance himself from Theo or the anger—disappointment, really—will eat up at him until there’s nothing left but rubble and dust, and he can’t afford that, not right now.

“I think things are different now, for Scott,” Theo says, every inch of him calculating, every roll of his tongue measured to make Stiles’ skin prickle, “especially after what he did to Corey.”

But Stiles has to give it to Theo: he’s good. He could have probably fooled Stiles from the beginning. A pretty face and a skilled tongue can get you anywhere, but not when Stiles has tasted every lie Theo’s throwing at him, not when he’s tried to convince himself using the exact same excuses, over and over.

He follows the lie on Theo’s lips, a slow stroke of his eyes, and Theo’s mouth twitches as he says, “I don’t think he’s going to blame us for defending ourselves. I know he won’t blame _you_.”

Theo stares at him like he’s waiting for Stiles to either punch him or kiss him, but Stiles’ mind is too busy holding onto its last streak of sanity for him to do either. Between chimeras and Dread Doctors and Theo, something somewhere has definitely, definitely snapped inside him and worked itself loose. 

He glances over his shoulder, at the spot where he killed Donovan, and watches his mind fall into a dark, endless spiral that isn’t entirely unfamiliar.

Stiles swallows hard around his throat as he turns back to Theo, tries to pick up the pieces of himself knowing they won’t mend back together. Theo doesn’t smile at him, doesn’t smirk, barely even holds Stiles’ gaze, but Stiles can’t help but feel trapped.

_So, what’s it gonna be, Stiles? Your move._

Stiles steps up to him again, chest to chest, fingers wrapping around one of Theo’s wrists, and that’s when Theo smirks: a slow curve, lopsided, just on the right side of aggressive. 

_Not here,_ Theo had said the day before, and Stiles’ mind echoes in vain. A sudden need blooms under his skin. He wants to beat Theo at his own game, _badly_.

He presses his thumb harder against Theo’s wrist, pinpoints the exact moment Theo’s pulse jumps under his skin and gives it a jerk, makes Theo stumble into him. Stiles doesn’t fight a smirk when he feels every inch of Theo against him. Stiles moves his knee between Theo’s thighs and Theo’s own smirk vanishes into an obscene whimper, his breath hot against Stiles’ face.

It’s Stiles’ turn to be cocky, knowing he’s turned the tables with something as simple as that. He leans in closer, lips against Theo’s ear, and whispers, deliberately slow, “Not here.”

*

Stiles never expected Theo not to retaliate—when you fight fire with fire, everyone loses, that’s how it works—but the day snowballs into an avalanche, and Stiles loses track of it.

Corey, Beth. Malia.

Malia’s pale when Stiles finds her wandering in the hallway, her blank stare set on the floor, and when he takes her hands in his, she doesn’t reciprocate, doesn’t give him straight answers. She glances up, past him and not _at_ him, burning a hole in the back of his skull, and says, after a moment’s silence, “I hate this.”

“I hate losing like this,” she amends, her eyes wet, a dull light behind them, and Stiles recognizes the darkness that’s about to take over it. “I’m not like Scott. I can’t deal with another body.” She pauses and the silence is louder than it should be, an insistent little buzz in his ears, a force bigger than her, than him, _them_. “Another failure,” she says, unattached.

 _Your failure, Stiles._

He doesn’t chase after her as she goes, because she’s right. 

He’s letting it take over, whatever _it_ is, and part of him _wants_ it to. He wants to linger on that chasm, anger at its boiling point, on that spark, that fire that he hasn’t felt since—since the Nogitsune. 

It crawls under his skin, spreads like a disease that won’t kill him for another lifetime, but that makes him lose grasp on time, day fading into night before he knows it. 

He sees Scott’s text as he’s staring at Theo’s name on his phone, his thumb lingering over the screen for he doesn’t know how long. After a moment, he swallows that constant pressure under his ribs, the one that coils in his stomach like nausea and elation muddled into one, and takes his Jeep to the animal clinic. 

The rain doesn’t wash the sensation away when he meets Scott at the back, but he didn’t expect it to.

“Hey, sorry,” he lies as he hops out of the car, “I had trouble starting the Jeep again, that thing’s barely hanging on. I couldn’t get in touch with Malia or Lydia.”

Scott stares at him like he just spotted a lie, and Stiles considers telling the truth, but he doesn't know how to, or maybe he’s just forgotten.

Rain fills the silence. There’s a little chaos in Scott’s eyes. A little doubt.

“Scott?” Stiles asks, out of habit. He knows what’s coming. Scott pulls out a wrench, Stiles’ wrench, the one he used to hit Donovan, and it’s still covered in blood, metal on metal. “Where’d you get that?”

The answer is Theo, has to be, even if Scott doesn’t say it out loud. Stiles is puzzled for an instant, but not surprised. 

Scott hands him the wrench and asks questions that Stiles expects him to, because he’s Scott fucking McCall—true alpha, altruistic little werewolf, Scott ‘do-no-harm’ McCall—and Stiles narrows his eyes at him, shakes his head.

“You think I had a choice?”

Even if he did feel guilty, even if his instinct had been to run and not fight, does Scott think Stiles could have protected himself otherwise, against a fucking chimera?

“There’s always a choice,” says Scott, his eyes flicking from the ground up to Stiles.

“Yeah, well. I can’t do what you can, Scott,” Stiles argues before he can think. The words burst out in hatred, a burning in his stomach that makes him want to puke. “I know you wouldn’t have done it. You probably would’ve just figured something out, right?”

“I’d try,” is what Scott says, of course.

Stiles’ fingers close more tightly around the wrench, resentment turning his skin hot against the metal. “Yeah, because you’re Scott McCall! You’re the true alpha,” he shouts, finally. Someone has to say it. Might as well be him. “Guess what? All of us can’t be true alphas. Some of us make mistakes. Some of us have to get our hands a little bloody sometimes.” Stiles takes in half a breath, not nearly deep enough to make his head stop spinning. “Some of us are human!”

“So, you had to kill him?”

The rain picks up and pours harder around them, droplets slapping the asphalt much like Stiles’ heartbeat against his chest. Scott’s words bleed into Stiles’ skin and make him want to just step out of it and let it there, pooled on the floor, covered in water and dirt.

“Scott, he was gonna kill _my dad_ ,” Stiles says, slowly.

“But the way that it happened…” Scott shakes his head, pauses. “There’s a point when it’s just—it’s not self-defense anymore.”

It’s getting harder to filter out Scott’s words. Stiles can barely hear past the thumping in his chest, can barely think past the images of Donovan in his head, of blood and murder and chaos and _Theo_.

He says, “What are you even talking about? I didn’t have a choice, Scott!” and he sounds like a broken record, a needle stuck on the same track, words echoing in the air.

Meaningless.

“You don’t even believe me, do you?” he offers, not expecting an answer. It’s clear in Scott’s eyes, in Scott’s shoulders. No matter what he says, Scott won’t believe him. Not anymore.

And when Scott answers, whispers, “I want to,” it’s Stiles who doesn’t believe him.

“Okay, alright, so—so believe me, then.”

Scott is the one who can keep him sane, who can save him from his own mind, but if Scott doesn’t believe him, if—

“Scott, say you believe me.”

—if they’re already past that point, then maybe Stiles shouldn’t even try, maybe he should let Theo take over his mind instead.

“Say it.” He takes a step forward, metal digging into his palm. “Say you believe me.”

“Stiles, we can’t kill people that we’re trying to save.”

“Say you believe me,” he echoes, and the next step he takes is out on instinct, is out of that hole in his chest, jagged and bleeding and desperate.

Scott takes a step back, one look at the wrench in Stiles’ hand and one look at Stiles’ face; he’s scared. 

There’s no way to fix this. They _are_ past that point. 

The words he says next he doesn’t believe in, “Please, just tell me. What do you want me to do?”

Scott opens his mouth as if weighing his words. “Don’t worry about Malia or Lydia,” he says, “we’ll find them.” He looks down, takes a breath. “Maybe, uh—maybe you should talk to your dad.”

Maybe Scott doesn’t know and it took Stiles a while to realize it himself, but this is exactly what Stiles needed: to let Scott go, to stop trying to be as good as him, simply because he can’t, and he isn’t.

*

Malia isn’t the first person Stiles calls when his Jeep breaks down smack in the middle of fuck-nowhere. 

Theo is. 

He doesn’t pick up. Stiles doesn’t leave a message, doesn’t try again, regrets it the moment he puts his phone down, pressed to his stomach as he leans back on his Jeep. He considers not calling anyone at all.

Malia is his third choice, after hours of chewing down onto his cheek, blood on his tongue, and she comes when the sun’s already risen in the distance, a sickly white light that stings Stiles’ eyes.

He hops into her car without a word and hopes she does the same, but a minute down the road she opens her mouth to speak, voice restrained, “Can they fix it?”

 _Can we fix you? Can we fix us?_ is what Stiles hears, instead.

He slumps into his seat, eyes set on the asphalt, and murmurs, “There’s not enough duct tape in the world to fix that thing.”

He can almost hear the knot forming in Malia’s throat, a stubborn little lump that makes her swallow hard and clutch the steering wheel tighter. Her knuckles turn white against the leather.

“Maybe you should try something other than duct tape,” she says. He shakes his head and lists everything that can’t be fixed on his car, doesn’t even bother with everything that can’t be fixed between _them_. He ignores the pain in his chest as he sucks in a breath, lets Malia’s question spread in the air like an infection, “How come you let it get so bad?”

Stiles considers a thousand different answers. _Because I wanted to, because I needed to,_ he throws into the void, but aloud he says, “There’s been a few distractions, if you haven’t noticed.”

It comes out harsher than he intended, but he doesn’t apologize and Malia seems mildly annoyed, but not offended.

“I notice,” she tells him, and he finally looks at her, throat closing up as anxiety takes over. “More than you think.” He tries to apologize then, not sure for what, but she doesn’t let him, “Am I taking you home?”

The words hit him in the face like a brick. He averts his eyes, can’t bear to look at the way she clenches her teeth, hard enough that he hears the snap of bones, and says, “No, Sheriff station.”

He relaxes the muscles in his back when she doesn’t ask why, but his relief is short-lived as she pulls up at the station and he reaches for the door.

“Are you going to tell him about Donovan?”

He settles back into his seat, blinks once, twice, swallows hard around his throat. “You knew?”

“I guessed,” she says with an almost-smile. “I saw the bite on your shoulder while you were sleeping.”

Stiles touches the bite absentmindedly, fingers over fabric, pressing to still-sore skin. 

“I also saw the marks on your waist.” He bites down onto his cheek, breaks the fragile skin again, and she goes on, “Theo, right? I caught his scent on you.”

He doesn't look at her, trying to shake his thoughts back into place. The world loses its color for a moment, darkness rising like a high tide until he’s drowning in it.

“Malia,” he starts, unsuccessfully.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” she says. Soft, forgiving. Every fiber in Stiles’ body goes haywire. “That’s why I never said anything.”

He gathers the courage to look at her, and he doesn’t understand. He _killed_ someone. He betrayed her, betrayed Scott, went against everything they believe in, everything that defines them, and this is what he gets—forgiveness?

“It matters to _me_ ,” he tells her, sharp, and the light fades from her eyes. 

It’s not fair to her. If she doesn’t care, then why should he? It should be easier like this, with her approval, no guilt. It should, but it isn’t. He needs balance, needs someone to keep his head on the surface.

He doesn’t have Scott anymore; he needs to have her, but if she’d rather see him drown, then he can stop fighting.

By the time he leaves her car, he’s already underwater.

*

Everything else happens in a blur. 

Parrish takes the bodies. His dad is nowhere to be found. He’s burned every bridge except for Theo, and it’s Theo who finds him at the station. 

It’s always Theo. Conveniently Theo.

He hears Theo’s truck before he sees it. He makes his way toward it, phone still in hand, an uncompleted call to Scott left behind.

“Sorry. I got here as fast as I could,” Theo starts as he hops out of the car, but Stiles doesn’t give him a chance to finish.

They’ve got some damage control to do.

He waves Theo off, says, “We gotta go. Now. Parrish’s got the bodies.”

“Okay, wait up. Stiles—wait.”

“Parrish is out,” Stiles reiterates, “and he’s got the bodies. We’ve gotta find Scott and we’ve gotta tell him.”

He’s already opened the door when Theo shouts, “Stiles!” Stiles steps back, retraces his path until he’s got a clear view of Theo. “I don’t think Scott wants to talk to you right now,” Theo says. 

Stiles tries hard not to roll his eyes. “Yeah, thanks. I’m aware of that. It doesn’t matter. He needs to know about this.”

“Stiles,” Theo says again, lower this time, voice wavering exactly the way he knows will catch Stiles’ attention. “Scott doesn’t want to talk to you.”

There it is. That tone again, drawing Stiles in like a magnet. 

Theo takes something out of his pocket—Stiles' library keycard—and holds it up, adds, “But I think your dad does.” He turns his back to Stiles. “Your dad was looking for you, Stiles. He found me instead.”

Stiles goes after him, anger pooling in his stomach, asks, “Where is he?”

“I covered for you. This was taken care of.”

Theo keeps talking but Stiles can’t hear him anymore. He circles back and Stiles rushes after him, presses on, “Did you hurt him?”

His dad is all he has left, if Theo—

“I never lied about why I came to Beacon Hills,” Theo says, giving Stiles a smile; all teeth, eyes alight. “I’m here for you, and I’m here for a pack.”

Stiles hates that he’s tasted that smile, hates that he wants to do it again even more. Even as Theo continues to speak, words unfamiliar to Stiles until now but not unexpected, he has to fight the urge to reach out and shove Theo against the hood of his truck.

Theo stops right into Stiles’ personal space, his eyes flicking down to the ground and back up. They flit to Stiles’ lips for a second, and then he smiles, teases, “Your heartbeat’s rising, Stiles, and it’s not because you’re afraid.” He glances at Stiles over his shoulder as he walks away. “The Nogitsune is gone, but you’ve still got more blood on your hands than any of us.”

Stiles draws in a short breath, can’t seem to do more than gasp as he says, “I’m about to get more.”

Theo’s mouth stretches into a lazy smirk. He wets his lips, taking two steps in Stiles’ direction. Stiles takes a moment to feel Theo’s chest against his, to count the strong, steady pulse of Theo’s heart as Theo whispers against Stiles’ mouth. “Do you want to hurt me, Stiles? Is that what you want? My blood on your hands?”

Stiles moves quickly: one shove at Theo’s shoulder and one punch straight to his jaw. Theo stumbles but doesn’t fall, and his laugh is like music to Stiles’ ears.

“There he is!” Theo says, licking his split lower lip clean. “That’s void Stiles. Felt good, didn’t it?” Stiles ignores the almost-ache in his knuckles as he connects his fist to Theo’s jaw again, knocking him down. 

Theo props himself up on an elbow and spits out more blood, glances up at Stiles. “Oh, we won’t tell Scott. The things I’ve done to you. The things you’ve done to _me_. The things you want to do right here, right now, ‘cause you can’t lose your best friend, right? Even though we both know you never needed him.”

A string of curses tumbles from Stiles’ lips and into the night as he dives straight into Theo, hands gripping tight at Theo’s collar. 

“You hate me now, but you’ll get it eventually,” Theo whispers, and he couldn’t be more wrong.

Hate? They’re far past that stage.

Stiles yanks at Theo’s jacket and kisses him, tastes the dull metallic tang of Theo’s blood as Theo opens his mouth without question, hands finding the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles moves out of instinct, straddling Theo’s hips and shoving at Theo’s clothes, fingers shaking badly with anxiety and need and not much else.

Messily, uncoordinated, Theo helps, mouth never leaving Stiles, elbows bumping. Stiles would laugh at their complete lack of self-awareness if he weren’t so desperate.

It feels like Theo’s breathing inside his head. He can hear the rush of Theo’s blood, the lump in Theo’s throat as Stiles presses harder against him, hip to hip. Stiles breaks the kiss and takes a breath, pushes Theo back against the gravel. 

Theo flushes an angry red. Stiles ignores it, reaching for Theo’s belt, and Theo’s anger dissolves into a broken whimper.

“Stiles—” 

“No, you don’t get to speak unless I tell you to.” Stiles punctuates his words with a forceful yank at Theo’s jeans, eyes trailing up Theo’s body to meet Theo’s. “Tell me he’s safe.”

Theo’s laugh is like a punch in the gut, and then his eyes are glowing amber, his hands reaching for the front of Stiles’ hoodie and flipping them around.

Stiles’ back hits the ground with a muffled thud and a distant pain in his bones. He closes his eyes, feels Theo’s words against his ear more than he hears them, “Don’t worry. Your dad’s safe, _Stiles._ ”

Stiles nods, keeps nodding even as Theo’s teeth sink into his neck, focuses on the tangled bones of their ankles, on Theo’s knee forcing him to spread his thighs. Theo’s mouth moves along his jawline and he swallows a whimper, makes Theo chuckle a painful sound.

He’s hard against Theo’s knee but he doesn’t move his hips, doesn’t think he can without surrendering the upper hand. Theo kisses him and he breathes out a moan amidst teeth and tongue and blood and lips, grabs a handful of Theo’s hair to pull him closer.

It’s Theo who moves first, his weight pressing down onto Stiles’ middle, his cock hard against Stiles’ thigh, and Stiles moves second, pushing Theo up just enough so he can reach past Theo’s boxers, close his fingers around Theo.

Theo moans then, a quiet sound muffled by Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles’ mouth goes dry. He moves slowly, cataloguing every movement that makes Theo gasp and almost lose balance above him, closing his eyes when Theo props himself up on one arm, free hand reaching down to work Stiles’ pants open.

Theo doesn’t explore, doesn’t take his time. He gives Stiles just enough pressure, just enough speed to make Stiles’ entire body hurt, impatient. Stiles rolls his hips in his desperation to bring them closer, breathes against Theo’s mouth more than he kisses him, foreheads pressed together.

They come within minutes, hands around each other in lazy strokes; an urgent, sticky fuck against the ground that leaves Stiles mentally exhausted.

Theo drops on top of him like dead weight, the sweat on his forehead sticking to Stiles’ neck, and Stiles can’t stand to touch him again, doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He nudges Theo with a knee instead, not a word said, and Theo rolls to the side, on top of his discarded jacket, without meeting Stiles’ eyes.

In silence, they recompose and forget anything ever happened. Stiles wipes his hands on his hoodie, files a mental note to throw it away or burn it later, or both, and watches Theo do roughly the same—except he looks, what? Satisfied?

Their gazes meet and lock for a second, too fast but not fast enough for Stiles to miss the broken anger in Theo’s eyes.

Stiles wets his lips, a breath stuck in his throat, and says, mind clearer than it's been in a long time, “Take me to him.”


End file.
